"A'a, Jack," he sed, "aw'm cap't wi' thee
Net knowin sich a chap as me;
For oft when tha's been on a spree,
Aw've been thear too;
But tho' aw've reckon'd safe o' thee,
Tha's just edged throo.
Mi name is Deeath--tha needn't start,
An put thi hand upon thi heart,
For tha may see 'at aw've noa dart
Wi' which to strike;
Let's sit an tawk afoor we part,
O'th edge o'th dyke."
"Nay, nay, that tale wea'nt do, owd lad,
For Bobby Burns tells me tha had
A scythe hung o'er thi shoulder, Gad!
Tha worn't dress'd
I' fine black clooath; tha wore a plad
Across thi breast!"
"Well, Jack," he said, "thar't capt no daat
To find me wanderin abaght;
But th' fact is, lad, 'at aw'm withaat
A job to do;
Mi scythe aw've had to put up th' spaat,
Mi arrows too."
"Yo dunnot mean to tell to me,
'At fowk noa moor will ha to dee?"
"Noa, hark a minnit an tha'll see
When th' truth aw tell!
Fowk do withaat mi darts an me,
Thev kill thersel.
They do it too at sich a rate
Wol mi owd system's aght o' date;
What we call folly, they call fate;
An all ther pleasur
Is ha to bring ther life's estate
To th' shortest measur.
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